Glorious
by Lucida Bright
Summary: A little CALENDAR GIRLS fluff. Lawrence, the cute photographer of the WI nude calendar, is determined to boost the confidence of one of his models with a private photo shoot. A one-off story.


_This little story is based on the film _Calendar Girl_s which itself is inspired by the true story of the eleven members of the Rydale and District Women's Institute who in 1998 decided to produce a calendar of nudes, with themselves as models. The 50-something women were pictured in the throes of traditional WI activities – baking, knitting, gardening, teaching, playing music, and so on, but unclothed. In the film the photographer was a hospital porter called Lawrence. Just before the story begins Eddie, the husband of Ruth – Miss X – has stormed out of their house, angry about her mention in the newspapers as a nude model. Ruth discovers he has been having an affair for some time._

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx _

Annie was right; she'd told him not to bother with the front door, as Ruth would most likely be in the garden or the kitchen, and both were at the back. He looked over the dry-stone wall to see her kneeling, head down in the border, digging furiously at something below a clump of dahlias. He cleared his throat, and she looked up.

'Lawrence!... hello.'

'Hello. Annie told me where you lived. Hope you don't mind, but I've brought something for you.'

'Oh... well, come on through.' She nodded towards the gate and carried on digging.

He did as bid, holding the envelope in front of him like an offering. 'Going well. The calendar. First lot sold out, Annie said.'

'Yes. Seems naked middle-aged Yorkshire women are in demand.'

She didn't sound happy about it. Lawrence took a deep breath.

'I was going through the contact sheets, you know, filing everything... er... there was this shot.' He waved the envelope at her, but she just looked at it. 'Of you. It was... er, not right for the calendar, like. But it's a beautiful shot. Makes you look beautiful. Sexy...' He faltered, blushing. I've brought you a print. Thought you and your husband would like it.

Ruth sat back on her heels and looked at him as though he kicked her. She said nothing, but got up abruptly and walked into the house without a word. Lawrence hovered for a moment, not knowing what to do. Did she expect him to follow her in? Did she want him to go? He could at least leave her the print. He poked his head round the door and saw her at the sink. 'Um...'

She jumped, looked round at him, startled out of her thoughts. She was crying. Lawrence was horrified. 'Oh, look, I'm really sorry. I didn't...'

'He's left me.'

'Sorry...?'

'Yes, me too. He's gone. Took a clean shirt, told me I was a tart, threw a newspaper at me, and walked out.'

'Oh, god... I'm sorry...'

'He's got a mistress. In Ilkley.' She said it like it was only to be expected in Ilkley.

Lawrence could think of nothing to say. Ruth turned on him, suddenly furious. 'She's nothing special. I went to see for myself. She's really nothing special. Got funny eyes. Like a goat...' She spat the last word.

'What does that make me?' She didn't give him a chance to reply. 'She's not that much younger than me. And not pretty. So I must be ugly, and old, but dull as well. We haven't had sex for months – now I know why. He's been shagging that... goaty tart. Laughing at me...' She was crying again. 'Do you know what she said? He told her I was dead.'

Lawrence put out a hand, desperate to reassure her. She flinched away from him.

'I think he may be right. I might as well be...'

She put her hands over her face, sobbing. Lawrence pulled the photograph out of the envelope and held it out to her, uselessly. He touched her arm but she pressed her hands harder to her face and turned from him.

'Look. Please. Ruth... please.' He squeezed her arm gently, encouragingly.

Slowly, she dropped her hands, then wiped her eyes angrily. He held the photo in front of her.

'Look. This is you. Beautiful...'

Ruth looked. Saw someone she couldn't recognise. She shook her head, glanced at him briefly.

'It's a fluke. Trick of the camera. You're clever, but it's not me.'

'But it is. It's not a trick. That was you, at that moment. You. Beautiful.'

'Not any other moment, though. Not what Eddie sees. Not what I am any more.' She turned round to face the little mirror hung between the window and the door. 'Old crone. Look at it. Tired. Old, old, old...'

Her voice broke, and she collapsed into a chair, head in hands, rocked by sobbing grief – for her past, her marriage, her empty future. Lawrence put a hand on her back, rubbing gently, offering the only comfort he could, and found himself clasped round the waist as Ruth flung her arms round him, clutching blindly to the warmth of kindness, her head pushed into his body as she wept. He held her gently, one hand stroking her hair, letting her cry. After a few minutes, she let him go, pushed herself upright, and ran from the room.

Shell-shocked, Lawrence stood looking at her photograph, the confident image of a woman in full bloom, a sunflower turned towards the radiance of her smile. He put the print back in its envelope and left it on the kitchen table before leaving, closing the door quietly behind him.

The next afternoon, Lawrence found Ruth in the garden again, hacking back an extravagant clump of forsythia, wielding secateurs like a killer as she severed one branch after another.

'Er, hello again.' Lawrence's tentative greeting stopped her in mid-cut.

She looked round, and at the sight of him, blushed scarlet. 'Oh... It's you...'

''Fraid so... Can I come in?'

'Um...'

But before she could refuse, Lawrence was through the gate and across the little lawn.

'Look, about yesterday...'

'Sorry about yesterday...'

They spoke together, and faltered, and apologised in unison. Ruth gestured to him to go on.

'I'm sorry I upset you. Not what I meant. I mean, er.. I... it was...'

'It's me who should be apologising. You caught me at a bad time – you must have been so embarrassed. You were very kind.'

'No... '

'I'm a sorry case. A sad old bag in need of a young man's pity.' She smiled, but it was a pretty bleak effort.

'You're _not_... Look, Ruth, I came round to ask you something. A favour. A big favour.'

'Do you want a coffee? I was going to make some anyway.'

It was a glorious autumn afternoon, sunny and still, so they sat on the bench, backs to the warm wall, the scent of fresh coffee weaving round them.

'Go on then. What's this favour?'

'Have you looked at the photograph again?'

'No. Sorry.'

'You're very photogenic.'

'Which means the camera makes me look better than I really do.'

'No – it shows the best of you. There's a difference.'

'Is there? OK.' She didn't sound convinced. 'So...?'

'So I'd like to take more of you.'

'You want me to pose for you?' She looked astonished, then sceptical. 'Naked?'

'No. Well, if you like. But it's not what I need.'

'So how does this constitute doing you a favour?'

'I enjoyed doing the calendar. Like to do more portraits. Might even earn a bit of pocket money. But I need a portfolio. To show people. Customers.'

'Clients.'

'What?'

'They'd be clients, not customers.'

'Oh. Yes. Anyway...'

'You don't want me – you want pretty girls. Young.'

'No, I don't. Want young girls, I mean. Not pretty, either.'

Ruth laughed. Lawrence blushed, realising how that had sounded.

'What I mean is – I want a beautiful, mature woman. In full bloom.' He blushed again. 'To photograph...'

'It's OK, Lawrence. I didn't think you were propositioning me.'

He gave her a funny look, but said nothing.

'But if you want to build your portfolio, surely you'd be better off with young models?'

'Girls don't spend money on portraits.'

Ruth's smile widened. 'No. I see what you mean, of course. And if you can make an ageing housewife look good, you can make anyone look good.'

Lawrence ducked his head and looked up at her through long lashes. Ruth had noticed the lashes before, and the silver eyes behind them. She noticed them now, and was caught for a moment in their light.

There was a small silence.

'What would it involve?'

'Half a day, maybe. Try some different shots. In the garden – maybe somewhere down by the river.'

'Definitely not naked, then.'

'Well...' He tipped his head, thoughtfully.

That made her laugh. Lawrence grinned.

'Everyone knows what you look like naked. You'd be a revelation in clothes.'

She smiled at his foolery. 'All right.'

He was caught off guard. 'All right, what?'

'All right, I'll do it.'

'Really? Fantastic... that's fantastic!'

Ruth smiled at his boyishness. 'When? You know we're going to America on Thursday.'

'Yes, Annie told me. Jay Leno. Incredible. You'll be famous.'

'You should be there, too. They're your photographs.'

'Wouldn't catch me on telly. Anyway, they want the glamour, not the back room boy.'

Ruth shook her head, amazed that such an attractive man should have so little ego.

'How about tomorrow?'

'Tomorrow? Not when I come back from LA? Might have a bit of colour then. Not so pasty.'

'Pale and interesting.'

'Ah, yes. This is Yorkshire.'

They smiled at each other.

'Tomorrow, then.'

She nodded. 'What do you want me to wear?'

'I'd like a few different things. Moods, you know.'

'You'd better come and have a look. You're the artist.'

'Bloody Botticelli.'

'Sorry?'

'That's what someone called me at the calendar shoot. Bloody Botticelli.' He was laughing. She joined him.

She took him upstairs, let him root through her wardrobe for suitable outfits. He dragged out the black dress she was taking to LA, a dusky pink silk jacket, and a little floral sundress. 'Scarves? Wraps? Hats? Jewellery?'

By the time he finished, Lawrence had made her empty virtually every accessory she possessed on to the bed, pouncing on this and that, making a small pile of desirable objects until he was satisfied.

'Are you done, Cecil Beaton?'

He flashed her a grin. 'Think so, Audrey Hepburn.'

She scoffed. 'More like Audrey Roberts.'

Before he left, Lawrence mooched round the little garden, looking for good backgrounds. They agreed on a nine thirty start, and said goodbye. Lawrence hesitated for a moment, and Ruth stepped forward quickly, kissed his cheek, her hand on his shoulder. 'Thank you, Lawrence. Thank you very much.'

He leaned towards her and kissed her back. 'See you tomorrow.'

Tomorrow dawned grey, against expectations and the Met forecast. Lawrence was prompt, and arrived with a carrier bag of mysteries. 'For later,' he said.

He dressed her in the black dress and pearls, with the silk jacket, cream scarf and black hat to ring the changes. It took her half an hour or so to relax under the gentle stream of compliments as Lawrence framed her against foliage and in front of a blaze of late Handel roses, the pink and gold blooms lending her skin an extra glow. The first raindrops fell as Ruth was shrugging on the pink silk jacket, and they fled back to the house, with arms full of clothes and kit.

'Is that it, then? We can always have another go when I get back.'

'No... we can try something else. I had an idea yesterday.' Lawrence got the carrier bag he'd brought in, and pulled its contents on to the kitchen table – scrunched up balls of gold and pink voile, two sheets: white, and black; and a length of red velvet.

'The patio doors. Is that your sitting room?'

Ruth led him through to a large room sparsely furnished, with a plain oatmeal carpet.

'Great. Perfect. Do you mind...?'

Ruth shrugged, smiling. 'Help yourself.'

Lawrence shoved the big sofa to one side of the room, pushed the heavy curtains as far to each side of the doors as they'd go, hung the gold and pink voile curtains and set up the lights and reflectors. He shot her in the pink silk, then in the floral dress, short and tailored, showing her figure to good advantage.

'Sexy curves.'

Ruth blushed. 'Stop it.'

'Why? brings colour to your cheeks. Better than Revlon.'

She laughed, and the shutter drive chattered through a dozen shots.

Lawrence stood up and looked at Ruth with the artist's gaze, impersonal, calculating light, and colour, and form. 'Will you try something for me?'

'Tell me.'

He picked up the red velvet and shook it out. The colour of blood, rich and lusty, the soft fabric rippled from Lawrence's hands.

'I can't wear that.' Ruth sounded shocked.

'Why not?'

'That colour...'

'You'll look sensational. I'll put your hair up. The glamour shot, Rita Hayworth style.'

'You're mad.'

'Nope. Have you got hair clips, or pins?'

Armed with Ruth's hair arsenal, Lawrence sat her in the kitchen and went to work.

'Are you gay?'

'No. Why?'

'Clothes, curtains, colour, and now hairdressing?'

'Oh. Yes. Er, no.'

'Married?'

'No.'

'Why are you working at Knapely General as a porter? You've got plenty of talent, and anyway you're very bright.'

'Thanks. I'm dyslexic. Almost illiterate. Didn't do anything much at school, couldn't take exams, so no qualifications. Can't make a living at art. Not much choice, really.'

'But you're so good. Surely dyslexia isn't so much of an obstacle these days?'

'Not for kids at school now, no. But I'm nearly forty. Beyond saving. And if I can't read easily and can't really write at all, I can't run a business, or learn about marketing, or do accounts, or even get a basic qualification.

'But your wife, or girlfriend could help you. Why aren't you married? I'd have thought you'd have been snapped up fifteen years ago.'

'I'm a hospital porter. No prospects. No catch.'

'You must have a girlfriend.'

He sighed. 'They come and go.' He forestalled further interrogation by ushering Ruth to her feet and back to the makeshift studio. He spread the black sheet on the carpet, then whipped it away again; taking all the sofa cushions, he laid them on the floor and spread the black sheet over them to make an undulating surface for Ruth to stand on.

Lawrence stood her in place on the cushions, moving lights and clipping on coloured gels; draping the velvet over her shoulder and across her body, he measured the light and did the camera set up.

'OK. Are you ready?'

'Don't know...'

'Can you undress down to your undies? Then I'll drape you in this stuff. Give me a shout when you're ready.'

'It's all right, I'm not that shy. You've seen me in less,' said Rugh, smiling.

'You might not be shy, but I am. Give me a shout.' Lawrence fled, pursued by her laughter, but was called back a moment later.

'The zip's stuck. You'll have to help me.'

The zip was very stuck, and even with Lawrence's manifold talents, it took him ten minutes to wrest the teeth apart without damaging the thing. Realising the dress would be off before he reached the door, he tried not to stare as Ruth slipped out of the garment and flung it on to a chair.

'Here,' he said, getting Ruth to hold the middle of the velvet secure against her bust, under her arms, while he wrapped her in the soft fabric from bust to toes, tight as a bandage, clipping the fabric in place at the back, spreading the material round her feet in a pool of colour on the black ground. He undid her bra strap without fuss and held the velvet while Ruth removed her bra and flung it in the same direction as the dress. Lawrence clipped the velvet tight at the back, and draped the remaining length over her shoulder, looping it over her arm in generous folds.

Standing behind her, Lawrence lifted her arm into position, checking the angle to the camera. 'I want you to look as if you're beckoning the viewer, inviting him towards you. Yes, good. Can you hold that?'

'Think so.'

'You look very beautiful. A goddess.' He bent his head and kissed her bare shoulder, feathering tiny kisses across the nape of her neck and down her naked arm, lifting her hand for a final kiss into her palm. He looked up into her eyes, smoky with wanting, full of questions.

'How do you feel?'

'Like a goddess,' she whispered, trembling, barely able to breathe, lost in his silver gaze.

Kissing her knuckles, Lawrence placed Ruth's hand by her side, and lifted her velvet-wrapped arm a little, kissing that hand too, before retreating to the camera.

'Will you invite me in?' he murmured. 'Don't speak; say it with your eyes, with your body...'

He took frame after frame, adjusting zoom and focal length until it was close up on her face. 'Sensational. Just so beautiful...'

'Oh, Christ... Help...! I'm going to fall!' Ruth was wrapped so tight she couldn't move her feet, and unromantically listed to starboard. Lawrence shot across the room, catching her as she keeled over, giggling. He lowered her gently to the cushioned floor, both of them gasping with laughter.

'You all right?'

'Trussed like a mummy and minus every shred of dignity, but unhurt...'

'You still look beautiful, if a bit, er, horizontal. Can I take some shots as you lie there?'

'I'm lying on the clips, though. Some of them are digging into bits I didn't know I had.'

'OK. Roll on to your side, then.'

Lawrence unclipped her and gently rolled her back, adjusting the velvet on her body and draping the ends to leave her feet bare and a shimmering river trailing from her hand, her bare arm curled around her head. Without the clips, the fabric slipped a little, showing glimpses of skin here and there.

'My god...' he breathed as he stood behind the camera. 'My god..'

The shutter drive pushed through a reel of film as she twisted and curved to his instructions, until she heard the rewind mechanism whirr, and Lawrence moved slowly back to her. He knelt beside her and with infinite tenderness stroked her face, his fingers trailing down her neck and over her breast, turning so that his palm caressed her body beneath the rich colour.

'Ruth. _Ruth_...'

She reached a hand behind his head, drew him down to her until their lips met, tender as a fantasy. They sipped and tasted, opening to each other with soft sounds of longing, desire igniting, burning away thought and sense and judgement, leaving only touch, and feeling, and passion. Lawrence unwrapped her, coil by coil, trailing fiery kisses across her skin, set her alight with his tongue.

By an alchemy she didn't consider, he lay naked with her, skin to skin on the black-clad cushions, exploring, discovering, laying claim to each other's body, intensity building to an unbearable pitch before one after the other they crashed through into glorious release, falling back to each other's arms, hearts thudding, bodies glowing in the aftermath, damp and tingling. Alive – beyond a shred of doubt, burstingly alive.

She laughed softly as she came to, exulting in the weight of his body on hers, the completeness of him still inside her. 'Bloody Botticelli,' she murmured. She felt Lawrence laugh, his face buried in the curve of her neck.

'The birth of Venus...' she heard him mutter. 'Velvet and silk...' And he was asleep.

On Thursday morning at sparrowfart, the taxi came, already full of Annie and Celia, and they joined the others in convoy to Manchester Airport.

On Tuesday night Lawrence had left her exhausted, a bit sore, and blissful, physically sated for the first time in a decade or more. Lawrence had kissed her lingeringly, whispering praise and thanks, and making promises that made her quiver. But she'd heard nothing from him since; the dazed happiness had been eroded by silence, eaten away by the fear that stopped her from ringing him.

She was quiet until they reached the check-in desk and discovered they'd been upgraded. The excitement of first class all the way to California allowed her to push the silence to the back of her mind, and apart from the long air-conditioned nights, when Ruth thought about Lawrence when she lay awake, and dreamed of his kisses, his generous body, the silver eyes. With the others, she could shop and laugh and drink like a normal celebrity; only when she was alone did the shadows touch her.

The same shadows were clutching at Lawrence; he'd forgotten she was leaving so early on Thursday, banging on her kitchen door at eight-thirty, an envelope of prints in his hand. The lack of response forced him to scribble a note and stuff it into the envelope, which he shoved through the letterbox. It would be a week before she was home, so he tried and failed not to think about her in the meantime.

What neither of them guessed was that Eddie would come back while Ruth was in LA, intent on packing his stuff and getting out without seeing her. He found the envelope, unsealed, unaddressed, so he pulled out the contents. He flicked through the photos, not recognising the woman in the images until he came to the shots of the floral sundress, when the horrid truth wormed its way into his faithless head. He looked back at the others, and suddenly there was a nasty buzz in his brain that sparked a rising fury. Then he found the note, scribbled by an unknown hand.

'_Darlign Veenus – evvidens. Prufe. Rign me_

_Bluddy Botichely xxx'_

Eddie scrunched the note in his fist and flung it from him; he stormed out to the dustbin and ripped the photos into quarters before stuffing them in with the stinking garbage.

xxxxxxxxx

A month later, the calendar had sold in tens of thousands, but life was pretty much back to normal for Ruth. The media were still demanding stories, but Chris and Annie were their contacts, so she could get on with ordinary things. Like finding a solicitor and divorcing Eddie.

'No chance of a reconciliation?' The solicitor was obliged to ask, and Ruth was obliged to shake her head. Even if Eddie wanted to come back, Ruth could neither bear the thought of him in the house nor forget her taste of happiness wrapped in blood red velvet.

No word from Lawrence. Not a single, solitary word. No glimpse. Ruth began to wonder if she'd dreamed the whole thing, a sad little post-menopausal fantasy.

When she had to go in to Knapely General to see her great aunt, ninety three, vague and doddery, and now bruised and aching from a fall, Ruth kept her eyes peeled for any sign of Lawrence. Determined not to be the stereotypical female, weakly begging for attention from a disinterested lover, Ruth had dressed down, not to look as though she cared what anyone thought. Then she'd remembered her aching relation in need of cheering up, and she'd changed into bright, pretty clothes and left the house before she could change her mind or her clothes again.

She'd seen her great-aunt, done some cheering up, and was on her way out, when she crunched into Lawrence – or the wheelchair he was pushing – as they rounded a corner in opposite directions. Rubbing her ankle, scraped by the chair's footrest, she heard the soft tones of the one voice she didn't want to hear. Or did want to hear, but didn't want to admit it.

'Sorry, so sorry... Ruth... oh, god, sorry.'

'My fault. Wasn't looking where I was going. Hello. Sorry.' Ruth bent down and spoke to the man in the wheelchair. 'Are you OK, love? I'm so sorry – clumsy of me.' She stepped aside to let Lawrence go on, but he grabbed her arm. 'Don't go, please.'

'Can't talk here. And what about...' Ruth nodded at his patient.

'I'll be five minutes. Please wait for me. Please, Ruth. I'll see you here? Please...' The silver eyes burned into hers, and she nodded.

'Five minutes...' Lawrence said, then disappeared down the corridor at a medal-winning pace, his patient in danger of wind burn.

Ruth sat on a high backed wooden settle, picked up a magazine and put it down again, incapable of the concentration required to flick through its pages. Five minutes dragged past and were gone. It was another three – she checked – before Lawrence skidded to a halt in front of her. 'Thank god you're still here. Sorry... thanks for waiting. Sorry.' He stumbled to a halt.

'It's OK, really.' Ruth was trying to stay cool, and wondering whether he could see that she was shaking. 'You don't need to worry about me...'

'But I upset you. You didn't like the photos...'

'I haven't seen any photos. I've not heard from you.'

Lawrence looked dumbfounded. 'I came round that Thursday morning – wanted you to take the photos with you – but you'd already gone. I left the photos for you. Dropped them through the door. Big brown envelope – you couldn't have missed them.' He frowned down at her, the eyes gunmetal grey. 'There was a note with them.' Not that those photos could have come from anyone else.

'I promise you, there was no envelope, no photos, no note. A lot of junk mail, and some bills. Nothing else.'

'I don't understand. Could someone have taken them?'

'Like who? No-one else lives in my house now, and there was no sign of burglars.'

They eyed each other with growing suspicion, and the silence grew heavy. Ruth shrugged, feeling tears coming close to the surface. 'Look, forget it. Doesn't matter. If they're of any use to you, use the pictures, I don't mind. It was fun...' She had to stop as her throat closed. 'Sorry. I've got to go. Glad you're OK. Good luck with the portraits. Bye.' She almost smiled, left the building, and ran to her car, swiping the tears from her eyes and almost falling as she ran down the steps to the car park.

Lawrence saw a woman embarrassed to say she'd hated the pictures and regretted having sex with him. She'd been kind, said the right things, but then she would. She was a kind woman. Generous. Soft. Giving... But gone. He had the photographs, but he'd lost her.

'Lawrence – what are you doing down here? Mrs Wallace needs to go down to X-ray now.' Sister Munns turned on her heel, beckoning Lawrence to follow her.

Ruth was overcome by a cleaning frenzy – it was at least a useful reaction to stress, and she gave into it willingly, moving furniture, pulling appliances out from the wall, climbing on chairs to clean the tops of things. Her conversation with Lawrence – if you call it a conversation – had left her confused and shaken. She didn't know why he'd bothered insisting that he'd brought the pictures round. He was young... but he wasn't, actually. Nearly forty, he said. Bloody sight younger than her, but almost middle-aged. _Old enough not to worry about upsetting some old boot he'd shagged. A mercy fuck. Felt sorry for me and didn't know how to escape. Poor sod._ Well, she'd play it cool. It had been wonderful, and she had quite a benchmark to measure any other compassionate man who came her way. The pictures can't have been as good as he'd hoped, but that was no surprise. She had the calendar shot – that was more than most people ever got. She pulled her attention back to the underside of the fridge. She fished out a ball of paper which she didn't remember dropping. Curious, she unfolded it. Realising instantly what it was, she groped for a chair and sat down hard. She smoothed the paper out on the table, reading the scribbled words over and over again.

When she stopped crying, she picked up the phone and dialled Eddie's mobile.

'What do you want?'

'When you came to the house, did you steal an envelope that had been left for me?'

'No.'

'What did you do with it, Eddie?'

'It wasn't addressed to you.'

'What did you do with it?'

'It was smut. I didn't realise you were a tart as well as a wrinkly pin-up for ancient old pervs.'

'What did you do with them, you bastard?'

'I binned them. They were muck. I'll tell my solicitor about them, don't you worry. You'll not get a penny from me, you tart.'

'Fuck off, Eddie.'

Ruth slammed down the phone, and smiled while she was crying. He hadn't lied. He had left them. He'd written her the sweetest note she'd ever been sent. He thought the photos were good. He hadn't lied.

But she'd virtually accused him of lying. And as good as told him to naff off. How could she put it right? A string of scenes ran through her head, of Lawrence's reaction to her news. Most of them ended badly. Then she realised she had no idea where he lived. She didn't have a number for him either. She'd have to go back to the hospital.

After three abortive attempts, when – sorry madam – Lawrence Sertain wasn't on duty (once) or had just left (twice), she finally caught up with him at the end of a shift; she blundered through explanation, apology, and clumsy hug.

'It'll take me twenty four hours to print you up a new set. I can bring them over on Saturday morning...?'

'Saturday?' Ruth failed to keep the disappointment from her face.

Lawrence hesitated for a beat. 'Or you could come back to mine now, and see the whole lot. If you like.'

Ruth lit up like an airport runway. 'I like. My car's there, look.'

'I've got my bike, but I'm only four minutes away. I'll race you. You've got to go round the one-way system.' They were grinning at each other.

'It would help if I knew where you live.'

'Fourteen, Salters Terrace. Workman's cottage, blue door. Last one there's a wet weekend...' And he was gone.

Ruth flew to her car, realised she had no idea where Salter's Terrace was, and got lost twice before she reached the blue door. It was open, and she blew in to find Lawrence lying on a long sofa, snoring.

'Oi, you shyster. Stop hamming. You must have cheated.'

He grinned, and got to his feet, his spiky blond hair less than an inch from the ceiling. 'You just can't drive. Or navigate. Or park. Useless bloody woman.'

Ruth hit him, but not hard enough to discourage him from kissing her.

She pushed him away after a while. 'Enough of that nonsense, paparazzo. Show me this evidence.'

Without a word, Lawrence led her upstairs, then turned her round to face the stairwell. She gasped. A huge colour print of a siren in red velvet beckoned from the wall, wild, ageless. She looked at Lawrence, tears brimming. He smiled, his eyes molten silver. He took her hand and led her into a room with every wall covered in photographs of every size and shape. Some of the calendar girls were there, and his alternative shot of her, the one she refused to believe.

'Here.' He put a large, flat box in front of her, lifted off the lid and took out a stack of prints measuring sixteen inches by twenty, a piece of black tissue paper between each. Here were the photos, in the order they'd been taken. The first couple in the garden, unfussy and elegant. The next, in her floral sundress, against the voile; the light from the window threw a lustre on to her skin from the gold and pink, and the lamps threw back shadows and texture.

'You're brilliant. The lighting...' She threw Lawrence a grateful smile.

'Keep going.'

The came the red velvet – the temptress and the wanton woman, shapely and knowing. 'I can't believe that's me.' Ruth blushed over a sideways glance at Lawrence.

'A piece of fabric and a few hair pins. Hardly major surgery.' He dropped a kiss on her hair. 'Turn to the next.'

The last few images reduced Ruth to tears. Taken after they'd made love for the first time, Ruth was naked, lying on the black-covered cushions, tangled in the white sheet, hair wild, lips red and swollen, eyes drugged with love, white limbs heavy with bliss. The smile of a favourite wife sated with pleasure, a smile kept for the skilled lover dedicated to his lady's delight. They were images of a renaissance courtesan, a well loved woman.

She turned to Lawrence, flung her arms round his neck, her face buried against his shoulder, lost for words.

'When did your husband last make you feel that way?'

She turned horrified eyes to his. 'Oh, my god – were these in the envelope as well?'

Lawrence grinned, and slowly Ruth's horror turned to laughter as she imagined Eddie's face. 'Do you think he makes goat woman look like that?'

'Who cares? All I care about is that I make you look like that again, preferably in the very near future. Stay here tonight, Ruth.'

'This could be habit-forming.'

'Good. I want to see you bloom in my arms.'

'Before you have flowers, you must plant seed.'

'You're a wicked woman.'

'I'll show you wicked...'

_- end -_

xxxxxxxxx

_Thanks to East Anglia for the inspiration, and the smutstresses of TRA for the encouragement._


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